Something of Our Own
by marblesharp
Summary: Hazelle wants to rebuild, Haymitch tries not to tear everything down, and there are embers in ashes. Hayzelle, post-Mockingjay.
1. this old and empty house

**Something of Our Own**

* * *

1.** this old and empty house**

**some days i can't even dress myself.**

**it's killing me to see you this way.**

(little talks; of monsters & men)

* * *

With darkness and the nightmares that accompany it, he dreads sleep.

The act of slipping into perilous oblivion, with or without the aid of alcohol, is the most distressing thing Haymitch can imagine. Of course, there's always the Hunger Games, which, hell, was a possibility for him a year ago with the Quarter Quell. His nightmares are recreations from his own subconscious, from the memories rotting inside it, and over the years he's learned he has quite the dark imagination.

Reality may be another kind of nightmare but sleep is a trap, keeping him locked in that shadowy place where his demons come out to play and all his faults are laid before him like reaping slips.

Alcohol doesn't reconcile him much. It numbs his transition into sleep, the most basic human necessity that he can barely tolerate. Gone are the days where lying down, all cozy in bed long enough was sufficient to fall asleep. It's either drinking himself into a stupor or not sleeping until daylight, though that only assures a few erratic hours filled with the anxiety of when he'll startle awake, screaming and slashing the air with his knife.

Yet he always awakens, and maybe that's the problem.

As long as Haymitch isn't aware of himself, his life, and the memories that torment him, he's content. Problem is, that hasn't happened yet. It's been years since he dreamt of something pleasant or even nothing at all. The only solution may very well be death but he has two too many people to look after for that.

Not that he hasn't considered it - Haymitch just tries not to linger on those kinds of thoughts. Giving into the hardships of his life means giving into the Capitol, and helping win a damn revolution is enough evidence that he can't accept the idea. Instead, he drinks until Peeta, Katniss, or Sae, or any combination thereof, makes him eat, bathe, talk. Instead, he drinks the entire day and into the night until he _has_ to fall asleep.

Right now, he's very, _very_ close to falling asleep.

Then, a goose honks too close to his face, and he practically leaps over the side of the couch.

He will not admit to a fucking goose that he's grateful, but he is.

The sound familiar enough that he doesn't stab the bird, he instead rolls his eyes and groans from the floor, which he has no intention of rising from and actually plans to stay there the rest of the day until he needs another drink. Perhaps the uncomfortable floor could delay sleep several hours. "Who the hell let you in?" he asks the goose, not expecting an answer.

He gets one, anyway. "I did." Shifting the bag on her shoulder, Hazelle Hawthorne adds, "Sorry. It ran in when I opened the door."

Haymitch stays on the floor but he sits up slowly, cautiously. He doesn't respond to her apology - frankly, he doesn't care if his geese get inside - but to her presence, here, in his house in a district that's been razed to ash and debris. She's _here_ when she should be in Thirteen or anywhere else in Panem. Then again, Twelve's her home and maybe that was reason enough for her.

Still, she's in _his_ house.

Groggily, Haymitch realizes Hazelle has come back to him, specifically, for work. The old canvas bag is full of cleaning implements: a dust pan, a short-handled broom, a retractable-handled mop, a feather duster, lye soap, and towel rags. He remembers always seeing the bag in the pantry but obviously never thought to use it. It used to belong to his mother, and he gave it to Hazelle once she started working for him. She might've needed it for other clients, should more work open up to her. All she would've had without it was just a washboard and a bucket full of more used rags and lumps of soap she'd been using as a laundress. Hazelle must have left it in his house; any belongings from the Seam that she didn't take with her were lost in the bombings.

The woman looks around the room, and while there's obvious distaste in her gaze there's also determination Haymitch recognizes.

She's done this before, and she'll do it again. Even though Haymitch isn't asking.

She looks better. Living in Thirteen, where the diet was strict yet consistent, for the past year has filled out her sunken cheeks some. She's still Seam-thin, though, a sharpness to her body that tells of years living in destitution, and her olive skin has paled from lack of natural light - another effect of life in Thirteen.

While she escaped most of the war, from her tired gray eyes alone, Haymitch can tell she's seen enough. They are haunted, nearly as shattered as his though the cracks are different. Before evacuating Twelve, she'd witnessed the one of the worst repercussions of the rebellion, people she knew choking on smoke and burning alive, her home collapsing around her. Though it wasn't the first time she'd seen President Snow's extreme punishment at work, it certainly had more impact on a larger scale, a lesson taught to the entire nation rather than Haymitch and those who knew him before he won.

After all of that, she has returned. It's kind of annoying to Haymitch that she's ready to resume her job as his housekeeper so soon. Hiring her had been awkward before, knowing there were things meant to be said but couldn't, not then. Maybe now is different, but Haymitch doubts that. There is nothing either of them can say that will change anything, really.

They should have a conversation about the war or Katniss or the past or even just how their week is going so far. Not one for doing the right thing, Haymitch mutters, "Geese don't run, they waddle," before climbing back onto the couch. Realizing she'll probably want to clean without any interference, like his snoring, panicked stirring, or even just his damn presence, he slips upstairs and locks his bedroom door behind him.

While his bed is the same and sleep is thankfully impervious, he feels different, unnerved.

* * *

Haymitch looked dead when Hazelle found him sprawled out on the couch, all sallow skin and unwashed clothes hanging too baggily from his body. Nonetheless, he sounded alive, his snores practically rattling the walls of the house - as they should now but don't. Through his open mouth she could see un-brushed teeth that no doubt fester in the omnipresent alcohol fumes. From the looks of him and his big house, he'd wasted no time resuming drinking.

Thirteen hadn't been kind to him in his forced sobriety. They had a war to win and whether Haymitch Abernathy participated in good health wasn't much of a concern. He'd generated some talk, though, in his secret involvement. He, Beetee Ma, and the Head Gamemaker Plutarch Heavensbee were apparently integral parts in the rebellion cause yet they never got screen time. Katniss was only their figurehead, the symbol to rally the people.

Watching her on television, Hazelle could see Haymitch fill Katniss' role as the Mockingjay after he won the Second Quarter Quell. It hadn't been a surprise that if Haymitch Abernathy would win the Hunger Games, he'd win with a rebellious flair: an indirect final kill using the Gamemakers' toys instead of the ones issued to him. Obviously, the Capitol had been furious and Haymitch didn't walk away scot-free but the defiance in his cunning could have inspired the nation.

Hazelle supposes there were more factors that determined the impetus of the rebellion, though, one a matter of having enough support. Looking back, she honestly doesn't think she would have revolted.

Haymitch, on the other hand, later did, and he succeeded.

It's disappointing to know all that about a man and then stand over him as he lives in the dregs of a bottle. But it's not pathetic. Hazelle knew him - the younger him - too well to pity him. She probably should have, and she's been plenty tempted over the years, but then she would have helped him and it would have been dangerous to help Haymitch Abernathy.

She'd been reluctant to go to him for a housekeeping job before the Quell and the war. That must have been obvious, as she had asked Katniss to ask him. But humiliation and awkwardness can be endured for the sake of her family.

He could have denied the offer, too, and he didn't. So now - at last - she's here to help him. Well, in a way, she is. She'll try. Because if she can swallow her pride for work, she certainly won't let any opinions of hers get in the way of being fair, of paying back someone she owes.

The goose that had ran - or rather, _waddled_ in followed her line of sight and honked in the man's face as if to alert him of company. She highly doubted Haymitch trained the gaggle crowding his lawn but it was her first thought upon seeing it.

She had stepped back when Haymitch sprung, gasping, from the stained cushions, remembering that he often slept with a knife. His knife had skid across the floor with a throw pillow. Hazelle noticed he didn't take it with him upstairs when he left her to get started.

Today, like her first day almost a year and a half ago, is the most arduous. Once she disposes of the filth that's accumulated since the last time she was here, all she has to do is maintain.

There aren't many surprises cleaning his house a second time. Bottles - some broken, some half-full, many empty - litter just about every surface. The only change is there aren't as many considering he'd been gone last summer and autumn. Also, there are goose feathers _everywhere_. Hazelle clears out all the trash in the living room and moves onto the kitchen before noon.

At noon, Hazelle leaves for lunch as well as to check on the kids, then returns. She doesn't _like_ cleaning but she finds she can lose herself in the work, focusing on dishes and laundry rather than fretting over things that won't pay her.

The sun is setting before she notices them. Must have cleaned around them, not registering what they were since they would seem so ordinary anywhere except here. Lining the walls and some of the surfaces around the house are about a dozen picture frames. They didn't need polishing or dusting, which should have caused suspicion, anyway. They weren't here before, when she worked here during the months before the Third Quell.

Upon closer inspection, Hazelle sees that the pictures aren't of Katniss and Peeta, recent, but of his actual family. _Decoratively_ scattered around are a picture of his parents' wedding day, both their miner portraits as well as his uncle's, sports team photos of both Haymitch and Cory, and a plaque Hazelle recognizes as the Medal of Valor.

A year ago, these pictures would have been dangerous. Or at least, she assumes they were because he had hid them for so long. Maybe he just didn't want to see them, which was understandable as well as heartbreaking. What had changed since then? The war?

She runs her fingers along the edges of the Medal of Valor. They all look the same, fake gold paint that's not worth shit anywhere with meaningless engraved sentences, mounted on average wood. Some, like Hazelle and apparently the Abernathy family, couldn't bring themselves to break it off and burn it. Hazelle had figured temporary warmth wasn't worth the loss of a commemoration for her late husband.

After Rohan died, Gale had grasped their own plaque like he knew by accepting it he was taking on part of the responsibility of providing for his family. Hazelle caught him sneaking out with his shabbiest clothes, a few strands of shoelaces that were tied together, and a kitchen knife the next morning. He'd crossed the fence into the woods without his father for the first time, and returned with a sickly rabbit.

Around the time Haymitch accepted this plaque, he and his mother and Cory were moving into his uncle Sear's house, next door to hers.

A stair creaks in the foyer. Haymitch rounds the end of the banister and stops, staring at Hazelle staring at the pictures as if she's encroached on something deeply personal of his. Well, perhaps she has but _he's_ the one that hung them, didn't he?

She holds her ground, crosses her arm, and looks at him questioningly.

"My knife," is all he says, cagily.

Reaching into her bag to retrieve it, Hazelle sees the man's eyes flash with accusation. She hurries to explain, "Didn't want to leave it lying around. I was going to put it on the table before I left." She also didn't want him tearing up the house she's still cleaning by searching for it.

She hands it to him and he grasps the hilt, mindful of her fingers. He nods a little in thanks. Then, he's gone.

Or he would be, except he stops halfway up the stairway to ask, "Why are you, uh, doing this?"

Technically, there are two answers but they have to interconnect or else it'd have been foolish of her to return. Hazelle's here to clean his house for money so she can feed her family as well as fix things between them because most of their friends are dead and, well, she wants to change that.

She answers, "The kids wanted to come back. We had to wait for some reconstruction to be sure there'd be work and school - and company." Her tone is light, almost friendly, but from the way he grimaces Haymitch doesn't receive it as such.

"You could have helped."

Looking around dubiously, because _who is he_ to criticize her with his current lifestyle, she scoffs, "I was busy making sure my family would be safe and cared for. What have you done?"

"Kept two kids breathing even though that's the last thing they or I wanted to do some days." He shrugs as he says, "So almost the same as you, but not quite." With a wry smile, he finally disappears upstairs, leaving her in the foyer with her mouth agape.

One good thing about her plan is that she could give up on trying to make any amends with him and just work for him - or even go somewhere else. The problem is she still doesn't think she will.

Well, she has a lot of work to do, then.

* * *

AN: I have passively shipped these two for too long, and now I'm attempting to write them. The rating will change to M in the future but I'll mention that a few chapters in advance. Thanks so much to my wonderful beta, Estoma! I own nothing.


	2. the whole world is moving

2. **the whole world is moving**

**i watch the stars from my window sill.**

**the whole world is moving and i'm standing still.**

(world spins madly on; the weepies)

* * *

The land looks like it's trying to remember summer and not quite grasping it. Thirteen had been so dismal inside and too new and limited outside. Here in Twelve, it's all three everywhere. There's barely any grass outside the Victors' Village, and the sky will have turned cold before the basic reconstruction is finished.

Trying to work diligently against the time limit of winter, some go out early every morning until late at night. They're rebuilding the Town closer to the Victors' Village. The objective, Hazelle thinks, is for it to grow and cover its old location and then some. There won't be another Seam because the nearby mines are shot for good. They're roped off, like a mining accident has occurred. The fires deep underground will not be able to be quelled for years and years. The smoke can be seen from the Village but it's not as dreadful as Hazelle had worried; it promises an end to their arduous industry.**  
**

No more colliers, for the time being. The thought is promising until she remembers that these people need jobs. A majority of the dead were miners but the fire took out most of the small merchant class as well. However, while artisans and shopkeepers would have been more helpful setting up the new Town than a bunch of tired former colliers, the Seam attitude of trudging through work with stoic persistence was what cleared the streets of the debris and buried the dead.

Hazelle will give respect where it's due: the returned refugees are doing outstandingly given their situation. Her heart swells with pride for her district when she hears the distant hammers and chainsaws from the Victors' Village, rebuilding a better Twelve. She'd heard them stepping off the train, onto the platform in the station.

Unsurprisingly, Rory is eager for work. He said as much on the train ride here. After being idle - which, to a Hawthorne, is synonymous with useless - in the war effort for so long in Thirteen, where they only trained him to follow orders, the chance to finally help out roiled within him. While Hazelle sorted the food pack from Thirteen into the pantry, she made sure he helped unpack their few possessions first before he left for the construction site down the road. He even tried dragging Vick along with him but Hazelle told them someone had to watch Posy and prepare the meals while she went several houses over to Haymitch's.

Rory is already home and had eaten when she comes back in the evening. He was assigned the _very important_ task of sorting and stacking blueprints and serving out water to the other workers. Seeing him sulk about it, Hazelle reminds him it's still work.**  
**

Posy, however, is elated to be home, even if they're not living in their small house in the Seam, anymore. She likes her new room as well as all the other rooms in the house, and she's told Hazelle this about a dozen times.

While he's made himself comfortable in the study of the house, laying a pillow against the back of the desk chair and reading huge books from the many shelves, Vick wants to explore the wilderness. He'd tend to wander off while they stayed by the lake after evacuating Twelve, spending time with Primrose Everdeen, who would point out certain plants her mother used and wildlife that Katniss brought home. From his lengthy contemplations during Reflection as well as at dinner in Thirteen, Vick expressed less interest in that, though, and more in the uncharted land itself. Hazelle doesn't know what to make of his fascination; it's different than Gale and Rohan, who saw the forest as an escape as well as a playground for their hunting knowledge.

Hazelle had expected her children to never want to come back after the traumatic bombings. But when nothing was left, including the burned, rotting corpses, there wasn't much to bring about bad memories - other than the fact that there was nothing. Instead, they'd been begging her to return home. It softened her that they could still call it that, and she kept reminding them that there wouldn't be much of anything that resembled home if they were to return. They didn't seem to mind.

Her kids are of a tough upbringing, she muses with pride.

Her kids are also amazed by the complexity of a shower. There were showers in District Thirteen, consisting of a shower head attached to the wall of a stall. These ones in the Victors' Village come straight down, and the dial is much more complex than Thirteen's off-on switch. Though Hazelle has never used one like this herself until this evening, seeing each of them marvel at the instant spray of various water temperatures is amusing to her, nonetheless.

Rory and Vick were left to their own devices and came out clean. Now it's Posy's turn, and she'll need assistance.

"Mother, it's too hot," her daughter tells her, leaning against the tiled wall, away from the water.

"All right." Hazelle turns the dial back towards the middle. The water felt fine against her hand as she held it out to test it, warm enough to relax the muscles a bit. She can tell it's the same temperature as when she showered since the dial is in the same position.

"Still too hot," Posy says, shaking her head.

Hazelle reaches out again and adjusts the dial, frowning when some water catches her sleeve. "I think you're just not used to warm water, baby." The bathing water in Thirteen was just barely heated, and in the Seam, melted snow and water from the well were cold whereas boiled water left alone for a bit was lukewarm by the time everyone had bathed.

Posy sticks out her palm, then nods, saying, "That's good." She steps into the spray. Hazelle lathers her hair and skin with the provided soaps.

Deemed sparkling, Posy is enveloped by the thick, soft towel that Hazelle holds out. Hazelle notices how tiny her daughter looks, practically swallowed by the towel, and remembers how red and veined Posy was as a newborn - so different from her unusually chubby brothers - the grim willpower it gave Hazelle to provide for her in every way she could.

Hazelle takes her hand. "Let's get you dressed in your nightgown and combed, okay?"

Posy nods, wet, dark strands of hair sticking to her lovely face as well as her back. All of a sudden, Hazelle believes her innocence will do the world good.

Later, she's half-listening to Vick approximate the distance the lake and cabin is from the nearest railroad when the phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Mother?"

"Gale! How are you?"

"I'm fine," her son answers. "I was calling to check on _you_, though. Make sure you arrived at the right house safe and all."

"Yes, we did." Hazelle leans a hip against the wall, smiling. "It's good to hear from you."

"Yeah, sorry about that." She hears Gale sigh on the other line. "I tried to contact you again before you left Thirteen but I've been busy with meetings. It's so surreal; I feel like I should be back in Twelve with you guys, helping rebuild, not negotiating with a bunch of uptight, starchy officers."

Rory rushes up to Hazelle. "Is that Gale? Can I talk to him?"

Hazelle shushes him. "After I'm done." She clarifies to her oldest son, "Your siblings miss you. I'll hand the phone over soon. Anyway, don't worry; you're doing more in Two than if you were here, for sure."

"How _is_ everything over there? Have they started rebuilding businesses or is it just the basic structures first? Rations stand, all that?"

"They're working pretty fast but I think it's just things like the ration stands that are up and running. I didn't see a lot on the way from the train station to the Village, though."

"That probably says enough, that you didn't see much," says Gale, worried. "You found work, though, right?"

"I'm rebuilding the entire grocery, yes."

"Hilarious." He must be rolling his eyes. They both know she couldn't handle that kind of labor now. She's not as weak as she was after Posy, whose birth seeped much of her strength and kept her from the mines, even if she couldn't return anyway with a baby to care for. Hazelle's fairly strong despite her slight frame. It's her age that has worn her down some.

Hazelle laughs and answers soberly, "But really, I do have work. Back to housekeeping for me."

"Abernathy?"

"Yes. Tomorrow I'll start collecting laundry from the other neighbors, too. We'll be fine, Gale. We're in a better living environment, for starters."

Her son huffs a laugh. "Thirteen wasn't ideal, sure, but it was an improvement over our old life back in Twelve."

"Thirteen functioned fine but it wasn't home."

An edge has crept into Gale's tone. "Can't argue with that, except there is no more of that home."

"I know, baby. Don't think anyone's forgotten," Hazelle murmurs. She straightens up. "Besides, we're only getting better. Right?"

"Right, if I can sort it out with others like me so people like you can work and actually get things done."

"Haven't forgotten your roots, I see," teases Hazelle, lightly. "All right, well, Rory's about to break the floor, he's pacing and jumping so much-"

"Mother!" Rory stops in front of her, crossing his arms, furrowing his brow. He's shorter than Gale by about three inches, probably, but their similar demeanors are uncanny.

"-so I'm going to hand you over. I love you."

"Love you, too," Gale says.

Hazelle hands Rory the phone and walks back into the living room. Vick still hasn't looked up from his book, hasn't even moved from his place on the settee. He's still talking about the miles away from the train station the lake must be.

* * *

Looking out through his now-spotless window, Haymitch sees a different landscape than when he and Katniss arrived back from the Capitol. They'd returned in the middle of winter, yes, but the ash from that past summer still hung in the air, settling over the snow - endless snow, there was nothing else - like the coal dust used to. Now the ash and snow are gone, along with the twisted, charred remains of building structures in Town that he could just make out from his place by the window months ago.

In the distance are the mountains, and they look as green and rolling and ancient as ever. To know there are places the Capitol hasn't touched is reassuring.

Because the view was only a reminder of the cost of rebellion, Haymitch hasn't looked outside very often. Until Hazelle came back, he figured everything was the same in Twelve: dreary and bleak and, for the most part, alone. But maybe time has been more productive than he thought.

Obviously there was a working train station because he still received liquor from the only three people who he knew for sure lived here. But other than that, Haymitch was reluctant to admit he didn't pay attention to the condition of his district.

The Victors' Village, having been so far removed from the rest of the district, was also unharmed by the firebombs. Moving about outside are people who returned within the past few months and took up residence in the nine other houses in the neighborhood. There must have been some unspoken consensus that no one would try to move in with the Mockingjay or the Boy Wonder or their surly, drunken mentor. Whole families and young people may be sharing for all Haymitch knows.

Seeing all the work so far from his house, Haymitch is guiltily reminded that he hasn't done much to help. He brought down the very oppressive authority that kept them from their freedom, and that should have been enough. But what was needed from him afterwards was to help clean up, especially when, as part of the rebellion, the scattered corpses were as much as his doing as the Mockingjay's.

So far all he's done is drink, raise geese, and help the kids with their book. They're almost finished with it, and he's told his share. It was something of a relief to finally remember all those dead children aloud, to make sure he hadn't forgotten them after he couldn't even help them, but it didn't alleviate the burden of those bloody sins like he'd foolishly hoped. He gradually filled his family's pages as well.

He's also kept in touch with Sae - or rather, she's kept in touch with him. She stops by with food and small conversation, as do the kids nowadays. He assumes his little victors are doing better. He always seems to be in stock of bread and squirrel stew and, courtesy of the trains, liquor. Sae had checked in on Katniss for him in the winter and through some of spring; surely the girl didn't want his company.

Frankly, Haymitch couldn't bear to see her yet, either. Even through his renewed drunken stupor, he knew exactly what she was going through and that the guidance and comfort of a mentor only goes so far. She'd become attached only to fall apart again when she lost him, which could be any fucking time now. He understands, even empathizes because he was just like her all those years ago.

While Katniss probably didn't want him, he knew through firsthand experience that she would have needed him if he gave her that option. Without Peeta, any familiar company would have sated the bitter loneliness inside of her during those months.

His own mentor, Stephan, had been too protective of Haymitch after he won, as was his uncle Sear. The losses upon his homecoming drew their little trio together for a few years until both were gone within the same night. It had been so much harder on him than if he were forced to buck up and face it alone, though he probably wouldn't be here today if he was trusted to do that at sixteen.

So Sae visited Katniss, and soon Peeta was back - fucking crisis avoided.

Hazelle's reappearance in his life is just another haunting reminder of that time. As a neighbor and childhood friend, her decision to abandon him had stung, maybe not as much as his other closer friends leaving, but in the end, he was alone with his grief.

Haymitch shakes his head, shoving aside thoughts about a woman who doesn't - and shouldn't - care about him. He leaves the window and goes into the kitchen for another bottle. Drowning out the past and even the present seems like the right thing to do.

The phone in his study rings.

He answers, not knowing what to think yet, and before he can say anything Plutarch Heavensbee is harping about reconnected phone lines and how fortunate they are that the electricity is still working and how silly of him it was to not contact him sooner.

"What do you want?" Haymitch asks drily.

Plutarch isn't affected. "Your help, of course! You didn't think you'd be rendered useless after the war, did you?"

Glancing towards the nearest window, where outside his gaggle meanders about his yard, he replies, "I assumed I was after I was sent home to babysit the girl." He rolls his eyes at himself; they both know it's sort of an unfair assumption since Haymitch volunteered himself to be Katniss' guardian.

He can practically hear Plutarch wave a hand dismissively. "Oh, that doesn't mean we wouldn't appreciate your thoughts on the matter of reconstruction and this new, squirming infant Panem. With so few back in Twelve, you're our only trusted representation."

With a humorless laugh, Haymitch almost replies, 'There's nothing to represent!' but stops himself. Until this morning, he believed that. Instead, he says, "We're in no shape to start organizing any legislation. Not yet, at least. Town's barely up again."

"Done."

"What?"

"I've just ordered an increase in shipments to Twelve as well as a crew of professional construction workers." Plutarch has a simple, nonchalant way about him when he's not talking about something he's remotely passionate about. Frankly, it pisses Haymitch off.

"You…" Haymitch pinches the bridge of his nose, repressing a deep sigh. "You're well enough to do that, wherever you are?"

"I'm in the Capitol, Haymitch. We've been fine here, yes - as much as we can be after the rebellion - and we're able to branch out to the districts now. Some have been handling reconstruction well, though, particularly Three and Seven. They even have volunteers available."

"And you're just now sending in help to the one district that isn't even a district anymore."

"Well, until I got a memo from Gale Hawthorne last night I didn't know people had returned. Apparently, he assigned his family the house saved for the team of railroaders repairing the train station after they left for District Six. I assumed it was just you three and maybe a few stragglers from Thirteen, natives to Twelve or not."

"Plutarch!" Haymitch slams a hand against the wall. "You mean to tell me you're just considering helping us?"

"We needed months to regroup, Haymitch. You know how long some of this can take. It's especially difficult when several regions of the country need aid."

"District Twelve should have been at the top of that list; there wasn't anything to build off of! You knew that, even during the war!"

"Yet there was no one to help, then," explains Plutarch, in that fucking calm, almost bored voice. Haymitch detects a condescending undertone but doesn't get too fired up; Plutarch is considerate compared to some of the district leaders he met in Thirteen. "Apparently, there are people to rebuild a district for, and we have enough resources to succor now."

Haymitch shakes his head. "You keep saying 'we'. They really let you in their club? No rules against former affiliates of Snow, the Hunger Games, all that?" His masterminding the rebellion aside, Plutarch was a Head Gamemaker. President Paylor and her cabinet would be wise not to trust him.

Plutarch hesitates, and that answers more to Haymitch than what he says next. "My knowledge of ancient politics and historical renewals of government are desperately needed. I'm also the media, at this point, even with Fulvia and Beetee's assistance considered. I'm only calling to reconnect Twelve, and I wanted to extend their offer for me to you as well."

"Me? I don't know much about history, outside of, you know, school textbooks."

"For someone who couldn't use a fork properly before his time in the Capitol yet had the intelligence to bring it down years later, I think it's safe to say your skills could only be beneficial to us. I want to put you to work. It'd be a waste if you didn't lend us your mind."

"I," Haymitch pauses, closing his eyes, "I'll think it over, okay?" After a few parting words, he hangs up the phone.

Despite the enticing bottles in his kitchen, Haymitch finds himself back at the window, looking out at his district. It's been cleared out and is in early stages of restoration. They don't have to build the Seam again. They can make this place better.

Before, what he saw filled him with guilt and anger. Seeing the land with a new perspective, Haymitch has a creeping, excited feeling: hope, mingled with determination.

* * *

AN: Continued thanks to my beta, Estoma! Hope you all enjoyed this update.


	3. ain't wasting no more time

3. **ain't wasting no more time  
**

**i'm working so i won't have to try so hard.**

(someday; the strokes)

* * *

When Hazelle stirs at the sound in the hallway, she's only half-awoken. Sighing, she rolls over and is rewarded the rest of the master bed. There's so much room.

While she indulges herself in this luxury, she wishes Rohan was sleeping next to her. He would've loved the extra space. The entire night he would stay completely still on his stomach, accustomed to sleeping in cramped conditions, though his tall frame took up much of their mattress. She misses how there was always a comfortably heavy limb draped over her. Frankly, she just misses him.

The door to the bedroom creaks open, and Hazelle sits up, looking for whichever child has come. She was expecting at least one of them tonight, on their first night in the house.

Concern, not alarm being her first response worries her. With Gale no longer living with them, there's a need to be afraid of intruders instead of merely her children's nightmares now.

"Mother?" It's Posy.

"I'm awake," answers Hazelle, peeling off the corner of the duvet next to her. "Come here."

"I don't like my new bed," Posy explains, crossing the room and climbing into bed. "I mean, I like my room but I don't like sleeping in it."

"I understand, baby. You'll get used to it over time." She glances at her bedside alarm clock and realizes, with a small sigh, she'll have to get up in a few hours for work. It's still dark outside, though.

Posy hugs her, pressing her face into the curve of Hazelle's neck, and in less than twenty minutes, her breathing levels out. That's when Hazelle relaxes into sleep as well.

In the morning, she has to hurry to set off the alarm before it wakes Posy. As Hazelle descends the stairs, she pulls her hair back with an elastic band. She sets out breakfast for Rory to finish once everyone else is awake. He should be up soon.

When she leaves, she's met with crisp, morning air and a pastel sunrise. The Village is laid out before her neatly, a light fog suspended over the lawns and the street like smoke. She looks out over the canopy of the surrounding woods at the telltale smoke of their old, closest mine rising in a hazy column in the distance. Its color darker than the fog around her, Hazelle frowns thinking of the surrounding area, choked and charred and dying. The shiver surprises her; she was remembering the bombings.

Walking over to the house across from hers, Hazelle can hear people moving about inside. Definitely adults but also a child, she thinks. As she knocks on the front door, she grips the strap of the bag she took with her, having dumped out all of her housekeeper supplies to - hopefully - make room for laundry.

A middle-aged Seam woman she recognizes as Alice Grant answers the door. "Hazelle! It's great to see you again."

Hazelle smiles. "Likewise, Alice."

Alice invites her inside. The house is sparsely furnished with their own possessions, not unlike her own. The smell of fresh bread, eggs, and tea sweeps over Hazelle like a warm breeze. She follows the other woman into the kitchen, where her husband and her sons sit at the table eating breakfast.

The Grant family lived a street or so away from Hazelle and her family in the Seam. She'd gotten closer with them in Thirteen, where their compartments were closer.

Wilbur Grant shakes her hand upon seeing her. "So Gale did convince you to come back! We were certain you'd stay in Thirteen."

"No, this is our home. Besides, all the kids wanted to come back here," Hazelle answers. She rejects Alice's offer of tea.

Sipping at her own drink, Alice stands with her at the counter. "Our boys were only worried about having no kids around," she says. "Hector came home last night saying he saw Rory around so we reckoned you returned with your little herd."

Hazelle laughs, then asks Hector, their oldest, "You're working down at the construction site?"

Nodding, Hector answers, "Yes, ma'am. I'm helping with the bakery. I have to head out in a bit."

"Once that bakery's rebuilt, the Mellark boy's going to be working down there. He's got his father's skill. Been feeding us the entire spring and overseeing the bakery's reconstruction," comments Wilbur. "Here, have some bread."

"No, thank you," says Hazelle. "I'll have to find him today and sign up."

Their youngest third son, who's about nine years old, pipes up, "He was here a little bit ago. He delivers the bread every morning and then goes down to the Town. You could catch him before then."

Hazelle says, "Guess I will. Thank you, Glenn."

Glenn nods and scoops a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

Though she's already been friendly enough to propose her laundry service to them, their breakfast prompts Hazelle to ask, "You have hens?"

Alice affirms, "Thirteen sent some with us, figuring we'd need all the livestock we could get before District Ten could send some. We've got a little coop out back there, courtesy of our boys."

Hazelle looks out their kitchen window at the amateurishly made henhouse stooped right outside the house. She sees a pen not far from it. "Oh, pigs, too?"

"And two goats," adds Aiden, a friend and classmate of Vick's. "Her name is Nala and his name's Gillie."

"You'll have milk, then." Hazelle remembers Prim's goat Lady with a touch of remorse. She absently touches the bag at her hip and jolts herself back into a work mindset. "Well, anyway, I'm here to see if you needed any laundry washed. I'm starting up again."

Wilbur and Alice's immediate response is affirmative. After negotiating with them on payment - eggs and milk for now and, later, first pickings on pork cuts - and collecting the family's laundry, Alice walks her to the door.

Away from the others, Alice crosses her arms, frowning as she says, "The television is always saying stuff about how this is the chance to start over since we won the war. Those mines are worthless to us now, and so are miners like Wilbur and I. The boys grew up learning how to be miners, then in Thirteen to be some other kind of manual workers or soldiers. We've had to adapt."

Hazelle furrows her brow, confused. "What-"

"You could be anything, and you're going to be a _laundress_ again, Hazelle?" The woman shakes her head at her in disappointment.

The bag of unwashed clothes anchors Hazelle to the floor. She snaps, "I plan to do whatever I can to keep my children fed and safe. That's the Seam way, isn't it?" Before Alice Grant can open her stupid mouth again, Hazelle pulls the front door open, predicts she'll have the clothes done by Tuesday in a measured tone, and leaves, careful not to slam the door shut to alert Wilbur and the boys.

She deposits the laundry in a pile at the house, tells Vick to play with his sister, kisses both him and Posy on the brows, then crosses the street again to a house diagonal to hers, neighboring the Grants. Hector is already aways down the road when a man answers the door. He introduces himself as Nathaniel Carter. She doesn't quite remember him but she thinks he was a cousin of Artie Everdeen.

"So what can I do for you?" Nathaniel asks, casually blocking her from entering the doorway. Smart man, obviously Seam with his sharp gray eyes, dark waves, and pale olive skin. He looks to be in his thirties.

"Any laundry you have in exchange for..." Hazelle trails off, allowing him to fill the blank himself.

Nathaniel scratches at his chin. "I've got access to ration cards that we can bargain. Having clean laundry while we're always busy would be nice. You collecting now?" She lifts her bag a little in response. "Hold on just a minute."

He returns with a larger bundle of clothes than the Grants. She looks at it questioningly, and he must read her face well because he explains, "This is a residence for the workers."

Hazelle suppresses a frown, thinking of all the dirt and muck that must be on their clothes. "Why aren't you down there?"

"Sick. I've almost recovered - just didn't want to risk spreading the flu to the others. They should all be fine without me unless we suddenly have a change of plans."

"Why's that?" Hazelle asks idly, stuffing the clothes into her bag as best she can.

"Well, I've been the overseer since we started up. I used to be a captain, and we all figured that was as much qualification as any."

Nodding, Hazelle extends a hand with a newfound respect for the man. He hesitates until she tells him she's practically immune due to her kids. She bids him good health, leaves to find Peeta if she can, and then to Haymitch's.

* * *

"So you're like the mayor now?" Peeta asks, regarding the mess of papers amid the bottles on Haymitch's desk.

"Because clearly I'm qualified." Haymitch rolls his eyes good-naturedly, leaning back in his chair with a bottle. "I'm just helping us become an actual district again. Think of me more as… an _unofficial_ district representative for the time being."

The temporary job suited him, really. He suspects Plutarch wants him to fall in love with politics and commit full-time, to _lend that mind of his_ or whatever the man had said over the phone. Haymitch has no desire to lead the district, though. Working in the background until Twelve is able to stand on its feet again and then fading back into a quiet life is much more attractive. He _does_ want to help, he just couldn't imagine staying after stabilizing basic reconstruction. In a way, he's just helping finish something he helped start.

Peeta uncrosses his legs and leans forward in his seat he pushed up to the desk. "What are all these papers?"

"Contacts from over the years."

"Capitol sponsors?" Katniss asks from her own seat, the farthest from the desk - of course. She's curled up, tired and proud after a long morning of hunting. Still thin from the winter, she's had to pace herself, quitting midway through her snare line if she's feeling unwell. The heat's been no help with controlling her stamina but the warmer weather of spring and summer has had a regenerative effect on her spirit.

Haymitch shakes his head, sweeping an analytical look across the stacks. "Not all of them. Most of these are from the rebel organization but many are dead or in hiding."

As Haymitch takes a long pull from his bottle, the boy reads over a paper. Together, they've listed what's been built, what's being built, and what needs to be built by winter. The latter third is bitterly longer than the first two. "If you want, we could help you sort these, figure out who can do what." Peeta's expression remains earnest even after Katniss groans, obviously disapproving.

Haymitch replies, "As much as I know you _both_ want to do that, it's not something I need help with. I just have to call, see if they still want to associate with the public, and beg for help." He directs a smirk at Katniss. "Not unlike dealing with sponsors."

Peeta rises from his chair. "Well, the bread won't deliver itself, then. I still have a few orders left. The crew will be on break by the time I get down there."

"You've got some new business now that the Hawthornes are back, too."

Sighing, Peeta smiles sheepishly. "Yes, the only family besides the Grants. We're getting there, slowly but surely."

As he leaves, bidding both Haymitch and Katniss goodbye, he hovers by Katniss uncertainly, leaving when she doesn't make any effort to permit a physical valediction. The girl glances at Haymitch, who has already turned back to his work and his liquor, after the front door closes. When she sees there's no smirk or retort to their little awkward goodbye, she looks away, lost in thought.

"I didn't know they came back." Her voice is suddenly very frail, and Haymitch snaps his head up. She's gone pale.

He curses himself for not realizing sooner. "It's just Hazelle and the kids. He's still in Two, or at least not here with them." He has no idea if that's actually true as he'd only seen Hazelle yesterday morning and exchanged roughly five sentences with her, containing nothing about her oldest son. It would even make sense for him to return, though; he was involved in the cleanup in Two, and his own district is still recuperating. Regardless, Katniss does not need to worry more than she already has to when she's stuck in this district full of bad memories for the foreseeable future.

Katniss shakes her head, on the verge of tears or something worse. "That might be worse, seeing all them after-" Her hands almost hide the way her mouth contorts but Haymitch detects it and is up and crossing the room before she can start sobbing.

Gale Hawthorne has been a sore topic rarely touched these past months - for good reason, too. Not even Haymitch, who doesn't pry into Katniss and Peeta's lives much anymore now that neither is trying to kill the other, could help but notice the shift in Katniss' behavior whenever something related to her late sister or her childhood best friend reached their broken, separate world. After Primrose's passage in the memory book was finished, Katniss escaped into the forest for the entire day, and when she returned to news of the reestablishment of Two's Justice Building, she left again. The connection was obvious.

While he's patting her back, Haymitch can't help but chuckle. "Was that honestly your first clue they were back? The clean house wasn't any indication?"

Katniss huffs a laugh without mirth. "It's not that clean. Just not as foul."

"Well, she's trying."

Shaking her head, the girl tells him, "Kind of hoped you were starting to put yourself together, what with helping Plutarch and all." That's when he notices the disappointment pinching her face instead of distress.

He keeps rubbing between her shoulders but looks away. She can smell the alcohol in his breath, anyway. "Still drinking, sweetheart," he mumbles.

After a few moments the girl pushes him away and sits up in the chair straighter. She's eighteen years old and Haymitch can't tell if she looks younger or older. Where her scrawny body isn't violently scarred it's baby pink, yet her eyes - it seems as if every pair of Seam eyes he's come across has aged a hundred years.

He remembers when Peeta's eyes were always clouded and angrily confused in Thirteen. They've since returned to their normal, hopeful bright blue but the ones in his nightmares haven't.

"_That's_ an understatement." Katniss considers the carpet and says, "What should I do? I can't ignore them when they'll be around the district now. The kids'll want to see me, and Hazelle will want to talk, catch up."

"Maybe they don't know."

"But I do." She brushes some stray hairs off her forehead and exhales. "Well?"

Haymitch shrugs. "I don't know what to tell you, sweetheart. I'm in the same boat as you on dealing with that kind of shit." Honestly, his metaphorical boat has long ago tipped over, and he's drowned in alcohol since. Considering they're both thinking of Hazelle, in a way, there's a pang of guilt and dread.

The scowl returns to her face but her eyes are still wet and red. "Somehow I knew you'd say that. I'm going to feed Buttercup." It's enough of a goodbye, and she leaves.

Without any more distractions, Haymitch returns to his desk. He takes a steady drink, skimming the list again. They need telephones hooked up down the road. Racking his brain for names, only one fits the job - sort of. He dials the number without a reference.

Beetee picks up on the third call. "Yes? Who is this?" the familiar, short-accented voice asks on the other line.

"Easy, just Haymitch."

"Oh. I should've recognized the area code."

Haymitch opts for a considerate approach; the man sounds suspicious as hell. "You must have a lot going on right now, I'm sure. How have you been?"

"I'm well enough," says Beetee. "Busy, yes, but I rather enjoy what I'm working on now." Haymitch silently acknowledges that doesn't even skim the surface about his previous projects during the war. He thinks of Gale and Beetee bent over blueprints that would be taken advantage of without their consent. In Gale's case, it must be true, and Haymitch didn't really _want_ to know the extent of Beetee's involvement in the parachute bombings. There's a pause that's probably thoughtful for Beetee, and awkward for Haymitch. Finally, Beetee asks, "May I ask why you're calling?"

"We need telephones here in Twelve. The construction site's down the road and only the Village and the train station have telecommunication."

"Haymitch, I'm an inventor, not a domestic technician."

Taking a page out of Plutarch's book of persuasion, he retorts, "Well, if you can loop the bug system and break into Capitol broadcasts, I'm sure telephones shouldn't be too much of a hassle. Besides, I just figured you knew more people suited for the job than I would. Our old district engineer was incinerated, and any apprentice of hers was, too."

On the other line, Beetee sighs. "Fine, fine. I don't appreciate the graphic imagery, you know. I'll give you the mayor's phone number so you can call and negotiate getting a group of specialized engineers. Not just telephones you need, right?"

"No." Scanning the list, Haymitch lists off, "Electricians. Our electricity isn't entirely reliable overall but we were just reconnected. We have plumbing, though a competent plumber wouldn't be unwelcome." While Peeta and Katniss had filled him in on almost everything else on the list, Haymitch was at least aware of those.

"Your train station," asks Beetee, "it's been restored already?" When Haymitch confirms, a little confused, Beetee muses aloud that the railroader guild has been most efficient. According to the older man, one of the first decrees of President Paylor was repairing the railroads across Panem so supplies and workers could be easily transported without hovercraft, whose limited space yet high-speed travel are used for the initial emergency shipments.

Haymitch replies that Twelve had received some of those in early spring, Katniss had said that Sae told her, with equipment to clean up and to begin building. "What they didn't send were actual skilled workers," he adds with a touch of resentment.

"District Three has been functioning well due to all of the guilds. It's even created volunteering opportunities to cover the districts evenly. No one in Twelve yet?"

"Plutarch just ordered some, or however it works. But as of now, what workers we have - amateur former miners, mind you - need to be able to communicate on a moment's notice."

"All right, well, call the mayor and talk with him. Let him know I can appoint, if that seems like it'll help." Beetee patiently recites the phone number as Haymitch jots it down in the margin of the list.

"Thanks, Volts."

"Good luck," replies the older victor, adding in a slightly awkward, teasing manner, "Hayseed."

Haymitch chuckles. "I'm hanging up now." He does just that, and before he calls the District Three mayor, he realizes he's almost a third into his bottle. After a quick self-assessment, he can tell he'll be more than tipsy if he drinks anymore. He has to monitor himself so the next few conversations today are relatively coherent, then. There's enough in his system that he can last until late afternoon, maybe early evening. Plenty of time to start establishing reconnections. He has the rest of the day, anyway.

Setting the bottle on the floor beside the desk, Haymtich tells himself this temporary job is just like the geese, something to do when he's not drinking - except he's not short on any liquor right now, and getting the district back on track is a bit more important than raising geese.

The rest of the day, he reassures himself with a deep breath.

* * *

AN: Thanks again to my wonderful beta, Estoma, and to anyone who's reviewed, followed, and favorited!


	4. places i can't reach

4. **places i can't reach  
**

**you know that i could use somebody,**

**someone like you**

**and all you know and how you speak.**

(use somebody; kings of leon)

* * *

It's well into the afternoon and he's on his second drink of the day - his first after all the phone calls, including a check-in from Plutarch that Haymitch had anticipated but _damn_, did it frustrate him into drinking halfway through the conversation - when there's a knock at the door. Knowing it can't be Katniss, who just barges in, or Peeta, who knocks as he enters as if that's any better, or even Sae, who occasionally visits after mealtimes with the kids, Haymitch answers the door and lets Hazelle in. There's an impersonal greeting on her part, and equal courtesy reciprocated on his before Hazelle starts her work again.

While Hazelle heads upstairs to clean out the second level, Haymitch returns to the study to retrieve his bottle. After almost two bottles of what's basically rotgut, his head is drowsily clouded and he can either maintain that or get drunker, and since there's really nothing left to do today, he decides the latter. But he doesn't want to stay in the study where all his notes, lists, and contacts are scattered about - too easy to soil them, and what would he tell Plutarch?

With a snort, Haymitch wonders when he started to care enough about not disappointing Plutarch. Maybe it was the hour-long discussion over the phone about Haymitch's progress on the first day that had Plutarch practically planning their fucking wedding.

Joining Plutarch's volunteers from the Capitol are now a team of engineers and carpenters from Three and Seven, respectively. Haymitch said he was looking for a mixed sort, with laborers as well as merchants and artisans - people who would help out and then stay to establish their own services.

Hearing that, Plutarch had approved, then informed him that it wasn't likely the Capitol volunteers would stay as well, that they were just lending a helping hand - _after all, there are already great minds there_, Plutarch felt the need to elaborate with a knowing chortle - but that they still needed shelter during their time in Twelve. So tomorrow Haymitch's job was to make room for all these newcomers.

If the telephone call had ended there, Haymitch would've been content, shrugging off the unnecessary flattery bullshit. But of _course_ Plutarch went on about how the president wants to set up a conference in the fall and needs representatives from each district.

Picking up his bottle, at last, Haymitch had simply deflected the subtle invitation with, "Hope Twelve finds some sorry bastard in time for that." The aftertaste of his first drink in hours was especially sharp.

He takes that same bottle and the bottle of liquor he's working on now into the kitchen. Tossing the empty one into the trashcan Hazelle replaced, he remembers that several filled bags are on his porch from yesterday. He saw them as he let Hazelle inside. Haymitch has no idea who's collecting them or where they're going - another thing to look into, once he's sober.

Since Hazelle cleaned it out yesterday, Haymitch is careful going about the kitchen for some bread. It seems insulting to soil anything after all her hard work, albeit unsolicited. She's already mopped the kitchen floor, and the counters and cabinets look polished. There are dishes in the sink, the only sign of incompleteness. He considers just finishing those for her but rejects the thought, considering he's drunk and would probably end up breaking a glass or something.

Stuffing a slice of bread into his mouth, Haymitch moves into the living room to survey Hazelle's work there so far as well. Though they're still pretty stained, he can tell she's cleaned the couch cushions as much as she could.

It's kind of amusing, how she went a bit overboard on the living room and the kitchen while the rest of the house still needs clearing out. He's not complaining - he just doesn't remember if this was something she did last time as well. Around that time, Ripper was in the stocks and Haymitch was struggling to conserve his liquor enough to hold off withdrawal. Whether Hazelle focused on one room at a time wasn't much of a concern to him, then. She's always been an overachiever so it'd make sense that she meticulously cleans as well, supposes Haymitch.

The perfectionist herself walks into the kitchen, as if detecting a threat to her progress. She has a jacket that's too small and too teal to be his own. "I'm going to guess Katniss?" she asks, her voice neutral.

Haymitch shakes his head. "Peeta's."

"Right," she snorts, admirably controlling her irritation. "You should give this back to her clean. I can wash it if you want?"

Shrugging while trying to keep from swaying is notably difficult. "I don't care what happens to it; her fault for leaving it here."

With one hand on her hip and the other holding the jacket like an argument, Hazelle says, "I'll return it to her, then."

Recalling the girl's unease that morning, Haymitch decides it's not the best idea. "Actually, I'll just... take that," he drawls as he reaches to take the jacket from her. It's thin, and the cool material reminds him how warm his hands are whereas the rest of him feels even colder. He hangs it on a kitchen chair by the hood.

"I guess she'll find it there eventually," remarks Hazelle, rolling her eyes.

"How'd you even find this?" He thinks he remembers the day Katniss left it upstairs, slipping it off as she talked with him about something Peeta said or did. Must have been pretty significant if she was desperate enough to come to him. He can't remember if he was any help.

An ironic smirk twitches at her lips. "Only thing out of the ordinary - like all the pictures yesterday." Hazelle nods toward where some of them recline nearby.

"You always so nosy?" asks Haymitch, raising a brow.

"Well, I'm either going to find them or they're lost." She looks him over with renewed distaste. He's drunk, obviously, but there's something off-putting she must see besides. "Hard to believe Katniss comes over here."

That nettles Haymitch more than her bringing up the pictures because, yeah, he's him but he woke up and sat with Katniss and listened to her that day. What's _Hazelle_ done for her lately? Bristling, he retorts, "Because she has so many other friends!"

Hazelle holds up her hands in defense. "Never mind; I'm not getting into this when I've barely started upstairs." She leaves him in the kitchen and returns upstairs, and he suspects all the talk of Katniss drove her away in apprehension. Does she know, then, about her son's bombs?

Haymitch sits down at the table with a sigh. No more notes for now, no more distractions, no more people and _their_ problems. He really needs a drink.

After a couple more hours and many more drinks, he hears a light tread down the steps, heading for the kitchen.

"Just a small break," explains Hazelle, as if he'd be mad otherwise. Going over to one of the cabinets, Hazelle takes out a glass to fill with water from the tap, and offhandedly offers him one as well. Haymitch takes a deliberate swig from his bottle in response. "All right, then," she mutters into her water, more to herself yet loud enough for him to hear.

They drink, not quite in sync with each other.

Standing by the sink, Hazelle studies the cabinets with dissatisfaction. "Ever consider repainting those?" she asks, and Haymitch scoffs. "That color would still look nice, only needs a fresher coat." She ignores his annoyed expression as she takes another sip. "So are the pictures all you're going to do?"

Haymitch sets his bottle down firmly and falls back against the chair, casting a withering look at her. "Haven't gotten around to anything else."

"I like them," she tries.

"That's _great_. Should you be wasting time when I'm paying you by the hour?" he asks, cross. He can't help his temper; her barging into his house and then his personal life like this isn't doing her housekeeping offer any favors. He hired her again, sure, because she needs the money and he honestly doesn't but that doesn't give her _of all people_ free reign to talk about his family. Her timing offends him further; she barely said a word to him last year yet now that the war's over, she wants to chat?

With a sigh he barely catches, she nods, acquiescing, then places her cup in the overcrowded sink. "I'll get to these soon," she says, of the dishes.

"No rush." He doesn't wait for her to leave before taking his longest, most needed drink of the day.

* * *

Hazelle decides it could have gone a lot worse.

The second day of housekeeping for Haymitch went how she'd expected the first day would go. She realizes now - rather sheepishly - that her offer of service was more of an inconvenience than a benefit to him.

He answered the door this time, at least, though she arrived later than the day before. Also, thankfully, the gaggle was in its coop between his and Katniss' houses.

The entire second level of his house wasn't as filthy as the kitchen alone. It meant less time to clear it out and clean yet also less time avoiding Haymitch. Hazelle had two plans, and she knew she couldn't keep hiding behind one.

Her stomach started growling while she peeled off the bedsheets in the master bedroom, and although it was due to hunger, she figured some water could quiet it until dinner. Yet her water break was more of an excuse, a reason to better herself with Haymitch, and it'd gone horribly.

As she leaves for the day, she tries to be as soundless as Rohan or Gale in the woods making her way to the front door. Hand on the handle, she actually _startles _at his voice. She isn't afraid of him; he's fiercer sober, and while liquor can unhinge a man's mouth or fist, Haymitch has been drunk around her before without issue.

"Hey, wait." Haymitch's voice isn't slurred much but his flushed face and numb eyes are clear indications of heavy inebriation. He gestures to a pot on the stove. "Made coffee if you want some."

"You - Thank you," Hazelle says as she walks into the kitchen, "but I'd appreciate it if, in the future, you didn't brew anything while drunk." A bit frank, she'll admit, throwing his addiction in his face rather than appreciating the sentiment, but Hazelle is unabashedly stern when it comes to safety. Besides, it's not as though Haymitch, a grown man, can't handle it.

"I stopped after you left," he tells her, pouring each of them a mug of black coffee. Set off to the side, the tall bottle he was drinking from earlier has remained the same amount from when she left hours before. The steam from the coffee curls around his hand as he pushes a mug across the table toward her. He looks around, a bit hopelessly, for a spoon after he takes a container of sugar from the pantry.

From the table, Hazelle says, "They're all dirty."

"I didn't want to handle the dishes-" Haymitch starts.

"So you made boiling hot coffee instead?" she scoffs. At his sheepish expression, she swallows any other retorts with her coffee, grimacing a little at the bitter hot taste, then just carefully pours sugar into her cup. However rare a treat it was her entire life, she's missed sugar. "But thanks."

"There's bread, too," he says, taking a mug for himself and reclining against the counter a bit.

Hazelle considers the somewhat eaten loaf on the counter. In her anger earlier, Hazelle had forgotten to grab a snack when she dropped off all the laundry, and missed lunch going down to the reconstruction site. Vick may have left out a plate for when she returns to the house but she doesn't know how long Haymitch plans to talk to her - if that's what's even happening.

Accepting a slice, she asks, "May I take some home? I'd just placed an order from Peeta, and our food pack from Thirteen doesn't have much fresh food anymore."

Haymitch waves off the favor, allowing her to. "Most of it goes to the geese but I think everyone feeds them for me, anyway; they're getting fat."

"I've been meaning to ask: Why geese?"

"They nested back there where the spring rain made the ground kind of marshy, and I didn't have anything to do so..." He half-shrugs to finish his sentence. "Peeta brings me bread every other damn day so I feed them that and they've stayed."

With a snort, Hazelle quips, "They seem to like your house, too."

"Not that bad of company, really," replies Haymitch, shrugging yet looking away.

"I prefer people."

"To each their own." He smirks wryly, "At least I know the geese will migrate eventually whereas people have a habit of leaving at the worst times."

Hazelle blanches at his words. In a strained voice, she replies, "Sometimes that's the best decision - for everyone." She wants to say more but doesn't.

The way his mouth twists, even he recognizes he was out of line. Haymitch nods, quiet and fadingly drunk and not the sixteen-year-old boy she once knew but not a completely different person either. The boy she knew had a soul. She imagines his soul now must be a dark, scarred, mangled thing, forever hunching into itself, but it's _there_.

"I'm - That wasn't the best way of going about this. So I've been thinking," he hesitates, and Hazelle is certain what he's trying to say - she's been ahead of him for days, wanting to say it herself - but lets him continue. "I'd like to ask for your help."

While some part of her sinks - _really?_ - she inquires, "With what? Not just housekeeping?"

"No," answers Haymitch. "A bit more important than that. How'd you like to assist me in my work?"

She raises a brow at him. "_You_ have work?" She instantly regrets the incredulity in her voice but she _does_ have just about every reason to be shocked. The only work he's ever willingly done as an adult was in the rebellion. As a kid, he'd hunt and trade at the Hob with Rohan and Artie, and he and his girlfriend Mollie Hannigan worked for Sae there as well. But those jobs were to survive, to scrape by in the Seam. After his Quell, all he did was mentor once a year until he was able to bleed that into the uprising.

Haymitch scowls, then sighs and takes a drink of coffee. "I have connections outside the district so I'm setting up for reconstruction, getting us back on the map."

Confused, Hazelle says haltingly, "There's been construction already." She'd seen it herself this morning.

"Amateur framework from our refugees," he answers with a sort of frustrated, dismissive tone in his voice that she doesn't like. "We've got some supplies but no professional workers. There are construction workers, carpenters, and engineers coming, some merchants later, too. Most likely our friends from Seven will have to amend whatever's been done so far - which has only been a few simple stands or whatnot - and then they can build more while the people from Three wire up the district."

"Sounds like a great plan," Hazelle allows. "But you know all this... how exactly?" There's no way he could have managed to know about all of this in the state he was in when she returned - or even his state currently.

He shrugs. "I've been filled in on what I haven't seen for myself. Certainly going faster than I had thought, but that might not be saying much."

"They cleaned up all spring, and they're building now." Hazelle shakes her head, incredulous. "How could you be so unaware?"

He sighs, not knowing what to say. "I tend to... block things out, I guess."

"I suppose that'd be understandable in any other situation nowadays." Haymitch raises his brow in question before she clarifies, "People can block out bad things. What's so bad about just noticing what's going on down the road? Or right here in the Village?"

"I don't know! Look, I expect your world won't be completely shattered when I tell you I drink, and as long as nothing prevents that, I don't think much."

Hazelle doesn't believe that at all. She'd cleaned his house for two days and could tell he _was_ thinking, he always is, but those thoughts kept him from considering the increasing neighbors or the way he always has liquor. He was alone with thoughts that held him in place, and therefore he must've assumed that Panem was held in place as well, not improving nor regressing.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair in frustration, he tells her, "I'm well aware how ignorant I am at the moment, all right? That's why I need your help. You're - I don't know - _involved_ so you probably already know more than I do after only a day back. Peeta knows enough and he's more than willing to help out but he's a kid and he's got a bakery to rebuild. I can't ask Katniss to talk to people because that'd be a fucking disaster. You're already working for me so why not just inform me of what you know?"

"What, am I supposed to spy on our neighbors down at the reconstruction site?"

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "For the greater good of District Twelve, sure. Do whatever you have to do to find out what _I_ need to provide for them so they can make us an actual district again."

Hazelle stares into her coffee, frowning. "I don't see why you can't just go around."

"Hazelle, yes you do." It's the first time Haymitch has spoken her name in a very long time. If he had used any nickname from their childhood, Hazelle would've confessed her real motive for returning to Twelve. Instead, she realizes he hasn't even forgiven her. Even with the sugary coffee, her mouth tastes bitter.

She does understand. While Haymitch wasn't Capitol by any means, he hasn't really been a part of District Twelve since after his homecoming. He could negotiate with officials all he wanted, but the actual people of Twelve might not accept his position. She thinks of Nathaniel, automatically put in charge because of his experience and prestige. Up against Haymitch, he's just a collier. But to the refugees, he's one of them, one of their own - and Haymitch isn't, hasn't been for decades. Not even his position in the rebellion could change that, apparently.

Hazelle's here to return a favor, anyway. She nods. "Fine. What's my first mission?"

"Well, all the volunteers coming need a place to stay. I've no idea who's living in the Village or how much room's left. Know anything about that?"

Hazelle nods. "This morning I went around collecting laundry from some neighbors." Remembering Alice's disappointment in her, she feels heat rise to her cheeks in rekindled anger and humiliation. By accepting Haymitch's offer, she'll be doing _something_ different now, which relaxes her some. She takes another drink.

"Well, if you could tell me how many people are in each house, I can assign the different teams units and settle all that for Plutarch."

"Okay. I'll go around the whole street tomorrow before coming here." It'd mean coming here later, but soon she won't need to spend so much time cleaning, anyway.

"Thanks," says Haymitch, earnestly.

She returns home to the usual fare - Posy plays, stacking up the couch cushions, while Vick reads and Rory sulks about the kitchen preparing dinner.

"You didn't eat lunch," says Rory. He takes a plate out of the icebox, and before he sets it on the table for her, Hazelle tells him to put it back. She's not that hungry anymore, and she wants to finish dinner herself.

As she sends him out of the kitchen, there's a knock at the door. Hazelle wills it to not be Haymitch though there's no reason for it to be him. Rory answers. It's Greasy Sae.

Polite greetings from everyone aside, the old woman sits herself down at the kitchen table. The boys become awkward with a stranger in their house, heading upstairs whereas Posy suddenly wants to help stir the soup.

"Not too fast," warns Hazelle.

Posy nods and steadies her pace. Her eyes flash to the old woman.

Keeping an eye on her daughter, Hazelle sits down in the chair closest to the stove. "Gale's in Two."

Sae answers, smiling, "Oh, I know; I see him on the television. You should be very proud."

Hazelle nods. She's not sure what else to say; she and Sae have never been close. She associates her with the Hob, that seedy black market Rohan and Gale traded at. She'd been as stoically outraged as anyone in the Seam when it was burnt down, though only because it was an example of the Capitol exercising its authority again, and because many people lost their jobs. She held no other love for the place.

"It's nice to see some more children around here. My Annalise has been lonely with just Katniss and Peeta."

"Mother, it's bubbling," says Posy.

Hazelle stands and takes the pot off the burner, then tells Posy to get her brothers. She remembers the bread Haymitch let her take home, pulling open a drawer to retrieve a knife. "Haven't seen Katniss around yet. She back to hunting?"

Shaking her head slowly, wisps of gray hair fine underneath the kitchen lights, Sae lowers her voice. "As much as she can nowadays. Hasn't been the same since the Capitol, of course."

Hazelle purses her lips, cutting into the bread. The last time she'd seen Katniss was the footage at the end of her trial when she and Haymitch were climbing into a hovercraft. She'd looked ill, lost, not at all like the girl Hazelle knew. The last time she'd seen her in person was in Thirteen, before Katniss' deployment.

"Poor girl, what with her sister," continues Sae. "Such a loss for Verbena, too." Indeed, that brought a wave of grief over Hazelle, as both a mother and someone genuinely fond of Primrose. She and Verbena may have their differences but they were good friends, and they loved each other's children as well.

"To sacrifice their own children to harm our medics…" Hazelle clears her throat. "I mean, we were used to the Capitol using _our_ children against us by then. I won't pretend to understand war but I do understand when enough's enough."

"Wish everyone did." Something in the older woman's tone bothers Hazelle, as if she is withholding a secret. Sae rises from the chair. "Well, I just wanted to appease the boy. He thought your son might be back, was all."

"You knew he was in Two," Hazelle points out, turning her attention back to the loaf. She ignores the urge to take umbrage at Peeta Mellark for worrying over whether Gale had returned. He's all right, but his and Katniss' televised love story had only hurt Gale - she never supported it.

"Yeah, _I_ did," replies Sae, "but Peeta - he gets paranoid, after what they did to him. He was worried for Katniss because of what happened with Gale."

Hazelle looks up from slicing the bread. "What do you mean? What about Gale?"

Old Seam gray eyes pierce her, grim and accusing. As the children near the kitchen, Sae says, "Like I said, not all folks know not to risk innocent people's lives for their own gain," and leaves in time for dinner.

* * *

AN: Continued thanks to my beta, Estoma!


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